Love and War
by The Seraph
Summary: When a patriot maiden in the thick of a Loyalist family runs away to escape life in England, she finds herself caught in a lie that leaves her painted as both a delicate Southern belle and a Loyalist. But she is neither, as William Tavington finds.
1. The War At Home

Love and War

Chapter I - A Patriot

I, Marian Jane Foster, am a woman.

I am not married, not engaged, and certainly not in love.

I am insignificant to every respect of the word.

I am a woman.

I am a patriot.

A knock on the hard oak door made Marian look up sharply, her gray eyes peering through the mousy curls that framed her face. "Bloody hell," she cursed, hastily shuffling the piece of parchment she was writing into a larger stack of paper and shoved her quill into the inkwell. "Yes?" she said, her voice now clipped and proper.

"Missa Marian?" a voice said and the door opened just enough for a slave to poke her head through.

Marian felt relief flood her body, "Oh, Maggie, it's just you," she breathed, moving her hand to her forehead, pushing her hair back. Maggie smiled, if only a little, and moved further into the room, wiping her palms on her stained apron. "I'll be damned if I have to suffer through another of Elizabeth's rants," Marian continued, picking at a loose thread in the sleeve of her simple dress.

"You shoulda be cussin' like that, Missa Marian," Maggie scolded, giving her master's daughter a reproving look. "And I think Missa 'Lizbeth's been asking for you to call her mother."

The younger girl felt the blood rise to her cheeks and she balled her small fists. "I don't care. She's lucky I don't call her what _I_ want to call her."

The slave only clucked her tongue and shook her head. "Shesa getting scared wid all the fightin' goin' on. She says she wants to go back to- to-," Maggie bit at her lip, a slight blush creeping into her face.

"England?" Marian offered quietly, her knees now drawn up to her chest. Maggie nodded, her eyes becoming brimmed with tears. "I don't want to go to England," Marian whispered, her eyes now on her mahogany desk. "Father would never make us leave. He can't, not in the condition he's in."

But Maggie's usual smile faded. "Missa 'Lizbeth will find a way, darlin'. Wid ya father the way he is, I'm 'fraid shesa masta of dis house."

Marian looked up with eyes bright with regretful tears. "I'm afraid you're right."

--

Downstairs, Elizabeth Anne Whitely Foster was tapping her foot impatiently while trying to keep the tall wig on her head from falling. "Where is that girl? I called for her twenty minutes ago," she ranted to no-one in particular, her watery blue eyes narrowed. Her skin was paper-white, despite the obvious lack of powder that came from a day lazing at home, and though her dress was what she called "unfit for company to see" it still was woven of expensive Chinese silk and covered a tightly pulled corset and set of skirt hoops. "If she's not here in the next _minute_," she began, but stopped herself when she heard heavy footsteps coming from the grand staircase in the next room. "Ooh, that girl," she murmured, storming into the next room. Behind her, she didn't noticed the manservant roll his eyes.

"Marian, I sent Margaret after you _twenty minutes_ ago. Honestly, what do they _teach_ in finishing schools today?" And off she went, touching on every subject from the dismal weather (despite the fact it had been blue clouds and sunshine for the past month) to upcoming parties in the span of merely a minute. Needless to say, Marian felt like jumping in front of a galloping horse.

She smiled every so sweetly and blinked her eyes, "You wanted to speak with me?" she managed to say through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth only wrinkled her nose, "You look like a horse when you do that," she spat, literally turning up her nose at Marian. Her stepdaughter only rolled her eyes, receiving a swat on the shoulder from the fan Elizabeth was clutching in her white, claw-like hand. "What did Madame Leur _tell_ you about that?" she scolded, her eyes wide from the child's 'impertinence'.

"You wanted to speak with me?" Marian repeated, refraining from swatting her stepmother back. With a clenched fist instead of a fan, mind you.

Finally, Elizabeth came to what little senses she had with a huff. "We're leaving for England," she said with a wide smile. If Marian had ever seen a hyena, she would have thought her stepmother was a distant relation.

Marian felt her body begin to shake with rage, "But," she stumbled, a hand at her throat, "My father! He can't be moved from the house in his condition, let alone make the journey to England! What kind of person would-?"

But Elizabeth held up her hand for silence, and surprisingly, Marian did so. "Doctor Morse has assured me that your father has improved enough to be able to. Do you think I would risk my husband's life just to be able to sail three thousand miles in a stinking ship?"

Her stepdaughter frowned and began muttering under her breath in a very unladylike manner. "Marian?" Elizabeth prompted, her voice sharp.

"No, I do not," she admitted, though she had her doubts.

"Good," her stepmother snapped, eyes narrowed to slits. "I've managed to get us passage on one of the generals' ships returning to England. God knows Cornwallis owes me that much," she said as a bit of an afterthought. "We're leaving before the week's end, and pack only what you need. The rest of our things will be coming along on the cargo ships."

But Marian didn't care. England was the last place she wanted to be; surrounded by ignorant Loyalists and their unbearable wives. She couldn't leave.

She was an American.

She was a patriot.


	2. Running

Love and War

Chapter II - Running

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The next morning was almost mockingly beautiful, as if teasing Marian. She padded across the oriental rugs that adorned the hardwood floors of her bedchamber, looking out over the plantation she called home. It was nearly nine and the slaves had long since begun their work. Her eyes swept over the landscape she was so in love with. From her vantage point she could see the forest. Though she could not see, she knew what lay beyond.

A good many plantations such as her own, and then Charleston east towards the sea. She loved Charleston, the streets, the buildings, the people. Every banner proclaiming independence between the stripes of Old Glory lifted her spirits. But no chance of that in England, or in Charleston, for that matter. It fell to the British, much to her sadness and dismay.

She sighed to herself, laying a hand on the thick glass window, warmed by the morning sun. "I can't leave," she murmured. "I _will _not." Resolve seeped into her voice as she clenched her fists.

Marion needed to prepare. They were leaving tomorrow morning. She didn't have much time.

She didn't need much time.

* * *

Charles Foster was never a sickly man. But when his first wife died, things changed. He turned to alcohol to drive away his pain, sometimes retreating to his quarters for days at a time. Marion was sent away to school in Boston when she was twelve; when she returned five years later, she barely recognized her once proud father.

He had become squat and fat, his skin pale tinged with purple at his outer extremities. He stopped riding horses, something Marion loved dearly, and his melancholy wasn't a secret to anyone. He had begun escorting Elizabeth Whitely, a recent widow of a high-ranking British officer, during Marion's last year of school and married her a few months after Marion's return to South Carolina.

If things had been terrible before, they were certainly worse afterwards. Elizabeth was a leech, for lack of a better word, feeding off the last of Charles' strength and his seemingly endless wealth. Three months after the wedding, he was told he was suffering from disease of the liver, due to his excessive drinking. Confined to his house, he didn't leave his bedchamber for the next two years and wasn't even in attendance to his daughter's Coming-Out Ball on her 18th birthday. That was when Dr. Morse came into the picture.

The man was a prior acquaintance of Elizabeth's, and had become Charles' private physician in 1775. Marion never liked him much, and didn't trust his judgment farther than she could throw him. She was sure Elizabeth had something to do with his diagnosis of her father, saying that he was 'recovering' when in reality he had been reduced to bed rest and could barely move his body, let alone survive a sea voyage.

Marion didn't like what was going on, and she knew Elizabeth was behind it all.

Night fell like a dark curtain, veiling the plantation in cool darkness. Marion waited anxiously on the terrace outside her bedroom, watching the windows away to the north. The lamplight in them flickered for a moment before being extinguished, plunging Marion into the black of the night. She held a sack close to her body, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. Next to her, she had stowed away a rope made from her bed sheets. In a flash, she had put it to good use and was slowly descending onto the cool, level lawn that ran away to the fields and the forest beyond.

As she felt her feet, shod in short leather boots, touch the ground, she turned to run. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the silhouette of a portly figure in the window of her father's room. For a moment, she debated turning around. But only for a moment.

Her steps were muffled by the moist grass and not a creature stirred as she turned onto the gravel road leading to the stables. Most of the horses were asleep as she hastily tacked up her mare, who was barely awake. Marion pulled a stash of saddlebags from its hiding place in a bale of hay and fastened it to her horse's saddle. The horse whinnied softly and Marion began rubbing her neck, cooing to the horse soothingly. "I know, Lark, I know," she murmured. "I wish I didn't have to do this either."

The horse batted her long eyelashes, as if begging Marion to reconsider her hasty decision. "I can't stay here," Marion whispered. She patted the horse again before using a bale of hay as a step to clamber into the saddle. Grabbing the leather reins with the slightest of sighs, the woman glanced to her left and then to the right, her eyes focused, searching for anyone that could hinder her. Seeing none, she dug her heels into Lark's sides, spurring the horse onward.

No one in the house was conscious enough to notice the steadily fading gallop of a horse, but on the edge of the woods, a single slave woman stood outside her crudely made shanty, holding back heavy tears.

"Godspeed, Missa Marion."

* * *

It was nearly midnight when flecks of foamy sweat began to form on Lark's flanks and Marion knew her steed was growing more tired by the minute. Marion herself could feel her eyelids begin to droop and she slowed Lark to a walk. "Whoa, girl," she said softly, noticing that every little noise seemed to make the horse spook.

Looking over her shoulder, Marion could see by cool moonlight as far as the next bend in the beaten dirt road. Forest surrounded her, and she knew her horse could not handle another mile. It seemed she would be sleeping among the trees that night.

"Come on, Lark," she crooned, resorting to conversations with her horse she was so lonely. The woman dismounted slowly, leading her horse into deep enough into the forest to be hidden, but not so far that she lost sight of the road. She had tied her horse to a tree using a bit of rope and climbed a few feet up a slight elevation, convinced sleeping on the ledge would keep her safe from snakes and the like.

Marion certainly was not the wilderness type, yet she wasn't exactly about to scream at the presence of a leaf within a four foot vicinity of her person. Even so, sleeping on the ground in the middle of a forest during war time was not on the top of her list of things to do and it was with some reluctance that she lay down a few feet away from her horse and waited for sleep to claim her.

* * *

She couldn't exactly when remember when she had become a patriot, but knew it was during her years attending school in Boston. Having come to Boston in the fall of 1769 and graduating in the late spring of 1774, Marion was present for many acts of revolution in Massachusetts, including the Boston Massacre and the Boston Tea Party. She had attended many a womens' rally under the banner of independence, despite her family's strict reputation as Loyalists.

Boston turned her cheek from her family's way, opening her eyes to the faults of the British Empire. She saw the affect the taxes had, how the people suffered from the oppression of the British. She came to despise the Empire and all her sons, vowing never to allow herself to bend to their will.

The foundations of her beliefs were about to be sorely shaken with the entrance of a certain British colonel into her life.

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	3. A Bit Of A Bind

Love and War

Chapter III - A Bit Of A Bind

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The Green Dragoons were riding hard and fast back to the fort. They were anxious to get off the road and away from the mindless peasants that seemed to be closing in, suffocating them. Colonel Tavington, their leader and commanding officer, could not stand the Americans and their ideals of 'independence' and 'freedom'. After all, every flock needs its shepherd, eh?

At the moment, the officer in question was eager to have a decent meal and a soothing bath if possible. Life in the Carolina wilderness was _not_ something he was accustomed too and he didn't care for it in the slightest. But, fate, it seemed, had a different plan for him.

Somewhere off the road, to the southern flank of the forest, he distinctly heard hoof beats, a whinny, and a female scream. Before he could raise his hand to stop the Dragoons, half of them had already halted, eager for something, _anything_, that would allow them to stretch their legs, stiff from hours of riding all over the Carolina wilds. Tavington had half a mind to have them all whipped for their assumption that he would deem this matter worthy of the Dragoons, but the fact that he _did_ deem it worthy stayed his hand. For the moment.

"Dragoons!" he yelled, his voice clipped and aristocratic. "Dismount!" There was a rustling of coats and the jingling of buttons and horse tack as Tavington's men vaulted off their horses. "Search the woods." Tavington was precise, saying only what needed to be said.

There was a collective mutter of a number of variations of 'Yes, sir,' as the lower officers strayed from the road, fanning out among the trees as they searched for the source of the scream. Their red uniforms stood out among the green of the forest, making them easy to spot.

"Captain Wilkins," Tavington added sharply, glancing sidelong at the man in question. "Accompany them."

Wilkins nodded, "Yes, sir." He dismounted and followed the other officers into the woods.

Suddenly, there was a low din of voices, muffled by the trees and the distance between the remaining Dragoons and the road. "Colonel!" an officer with a heavy Scottish accent called. Tavington shifted his body sharply, making sure to keep his horse in check. He could see the officer making his way through the trees, followed by a small cluster of redcoats.

"What have you found?" he demanded, his face remaining stoic and eyes and icy blue. He seemed bored with the situation already.

The Scotsman made his way from the underbrush to the road, leading the cluster of officers up to the colonel. "A girl, sir." Behind him, two redcoats were carrying the unconscious body of Marion Foster towards their commanding officer.

Tavington simply narrowed his eyes, taking in the girl's dirtied clothes, mussed hair and the bruise purpling over her left eye. He didn't miss that, despite the simplicity and modest nature of her clothing, it was obviously finely made. "Wilkins?"

Wilkins stepped out from behind the two officers carrying Marion, "Yes, sir," he replied promptly, ever the dutiful lapdog.

"Did you find anything else?"

"Yes, sir. She was unconscious when Herring found her. It seems has sustained a minor blow to the head. We don't know how long she's been out here, sir."

Tavington refrained from rolling his eyes and simply clenched his teeth. "Anything else, Captain?" His horse shifted, obviously bored from the lack of activity. Secretly, Tavington didn't blame the creature.

"There was some rope nearby. She may have been tied up and beaten. Savages, perhaps," Wilkins answered, trying to redeem himself.

His superior officer, however, was still not satisfied. "In these parts? I doubt it, Captain." He blinked placidly, literally looking down on his subordinate. "Possibly escaped slaves, or some local ruffians or militia looking for a bit of _fun_." He spat out the word like a bad taste, his eyes finally resting on the girl.

Obviously society. The smooth hands and skin, gently curling hair, pale complexion (not for lack of trying on her part, it seemed). It was a fair bet she was from one of the old Loyalist families, the Daniels, or even the Hewletts. Caught unawares and totally defenseless. _Monsters._

"And these tracks, Captain," Tavington said after a moment of surveying her. He pointed to the beaten road where a set of hoof prints trailed off the road and into the woods. The colonel couldn't help speaking with the smallest smirk, "What exactly do you make of these?"

* * *

Marion expected to wake to singing birds and soft sunshine. Instead, she found herself confined to a bed laden with ruffles and silk with a thick bandage swathed around her head. She saw stars for a moment as she tried to sit up, but once her eyes focused she found herself in a room not unalike her own back on the plantation. The view, however, was quite different.

She was obviously in a military fort of some kind. The windows to her left offered a plan view of the barracks, and past them white tents set up on the rolling green hills of Carolina plain. She could hear men drilling in the yard and didn't miss the telltale British accent that accompanied every order. Marion would have screamed in frustration, had voices not come within earshot outside her door.

"My lord, I don't see the reason behind harboring her. We should find her family and send her back immediately," the first voice said. Marion could tell that there was more than one thing irritating him at the moment, herself included.

"Colonel, she is unconscious. Do you expect her to answer your interrogation?" a second voice replied. This man was more levelheaded and collected as he spoke, each word thought upon. If the first man was a colonel, he was certainly a general.

"Women and their fainting spells. A good splash with some water will wake her." Marion immediately crossed her arms in a huff, furrowing her brow. Whoever this colonel was, he was _not_ very nice.

There was a sputtering for a moment as the general lost his cool for a moment. "Tavington, she is a _lady_. We cannot simply douse her with water. It would be improper and a dreadful mark on our reputation." By our, Marion assumed he meant the British Army. "We cannot allow ourselves to stoop to the level of the Continentals. There must be a thick line of separation between ourselves and those uncivilized beasts."

Tavington. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the name rang a bell. Maybe it was her throbbing headache, but Marion couldn't seem to place it. She settled for listening to more of the conversation.

"But my lord, we could be doing more to speed this process along," Tavington argued, and Marion could hear the frustration in his voice. He obviously thought himself superior to this general, despite his lower rank.

The general sighed loudly before answering. "You must learn patience, Colonel. Good things _do_ come with time."

Tavington made a noise that sounded like a snort, but suddenly his tone went from haughty to patronize. "Of course, my lord. I am merely suggesting we check to make sure the young lady has not awoken. How strange it must be to wake up in an unfamiliar place." Marion would have burst out laughing if not for the circumstances. This Tavington was a bit odd, to say the least.

Her smile faded as she heard the squeak of the door handle being turned. Marion winced as she flung herself back into the pillows, falling into what appeared to be a common sleeping position.

She heard the door open, gliding across the wood floor, and could sense someone hesitate. It was Tavington and he lingered in the doorway, his gentleman's sense nagging at his brain. It was not _proper _to enter a young woman's quarters. But he heard the general, Cornwallis, clear his throat from behind him, and he pushed all propriety to the back of his mind. He took a step into the room, his soldier's sense taking in everything.

"See," Cornwallis hissed, "She's still unconscious. Now, we should leave her be and question her later." But Tavington wasn't satisfied.

He took another step forward, ice eyes narrowed and hands clasped tightly behind his back. Tavington cleared his throat loudly and smirked when he saw her eyelids fluttered as she nearly flinched. This girl was feigning sleep, but why he did not know.

Tavington was quite sure it was neither slaves nor men who left her unconscious in the woods. The rope was obviously for tying up a horse that had long since run away from its mistress. But why a woman of her stature was so far from home was still a mystery. And the reason why she was feigning sleep was as well.

The colonel cleared his throat again, "Miss?" he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Behind him, Cornwallis pursed his lips, gesturing madly for them to leave. "Miss?" he repeated, this time his voice louder and more irritated.

Marion shifted her body, as if coming out of a deep sleep and yawned. "Bring my breakfast, Maggie," she muttered, arching her back as she stretched, hoping her little act was convincing enough. She blinked, opening her eyes, and saw the men who belonged to the two voices. "Oh my," she managed to say.

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	4. Of Little White Lies

**Love and War**

**Chapter IV - Little White Lies**

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As daughter of one of the Loyalist families, Marion knew both the men by sight. Lord General Cornwallis, commander of the British Armies in the South, and, judging by his uniform, Colonel William Tavington, leader of the Green Dragoons. Tavington the Butcher. She had heard stories of his cruelty, of his disregard for all things colonist, for everything she believed in. Funny, she had pictured him older, battleworn, and as close to a vulture you could get and still be human. It was quite the opposite in fact; he was dashing in his own way. Dark hair, tall, naught 35 years old. But his eyes. So cold, so shielded from the world and his own emotions. They scared her more than any story. 

Marion sat up slowly, eyeing both Tavington and General Cornwallis standing uncomfortably in the doorway. "I beg your pardon," she began, pulling the sheets up her small frame in mock modesty, "But exactly where am I?" Marion was banking on the renown British propriety; she was a woman, and at that a young, unmarried woman. They expected her to be the characteristically delicate flower. It wouldn't hurt to play up to the stereotype, now would it?

Tavington saw the flicker of fear in her eyes and he almost took a step back. He hadn't expected that. A Loyalist had nothing to fear from him. She obviously recognized him, by his uniform or his commanding presence. "Don't be alarmed, Miss," he heard himself say, hoping, for some mysterious reason, that his words would comfort her. "You are at Fort Carolina, under the guard of His Lordship, General Cornwallis, and his army."

Marion blinked slowly, looking from Tavington to Cornwallis. "Oh, my," she repeated. Then she raised an eyebrow and the fire behind her eyes made Tavington think twice about his quick judgement of her. "May I inquire as to _why_ I am here, and injured to boot?"

"Colonel Tavington and his men found you in the woods north of Charleston whilst returning from raids. You were unconcious and alone, and the Colonel saw fit to bring you here for examination and medical treatment," Cornwallis explained, shifting so that he was shoulder to shoulder with Tavington. But his stern facade softened; her soft features, she reminded him of his daughter in England. "May I ask your name?"

She hesitated for a second, her gray eyes wide, "Marion," she said softly, her clutch on the blankets still tight. "Marion Foster."

Cornwallis opened his mouth to respond but Tavington, seeing how uncomfortable their presence was making the girl, swiftly cut him off. "My lord, this is not the place for questioning. Perhaps Miss Foster should be given time to collect herself." _Get her story straight,_ he wanted to add. Marion cocked her head slightly, her gaze shifting back to Tavington. She held his icy stare for a moment. Something was wrong. This was Tavington the Butcher, not Tavington the Gentleman. She didn't trust his misleading, sickly sweet manner. She had to be on her guard.

"Yes, of course, Colonel," Cornwallis muttered, looking down for a moment and clasping his hands behind his back. "Miss Foster, would you join us in my study when you're ready?"

Marion blinked slowly, nodding her head. "Yes, sir."

The general nodded his head and turned, gesturing for Tavington to follow. The colonel did, but not before looking over Marion again. She was a Foster; part of one of the great Loyalist families of America. Traditionally, at her age (and she looked to be about twenty) she would have been married, possibly a mother or with child. Yet she was different. She was indefinitely a woman, but not a woman of her time to any extent. The bravery with which she looked at him was not of anyone he had ever met, at least not of anyone he ever allowed to live.

* * *

Once the door closed behind the British officers and Marion heard the click of their leather boots finally melt away, she let her hands fly to her head, burying her face in the sheets to muffle her screams of wrath and frustration. She had run away to escapethe life of an oppressed Loyalist, now here she was, in the belly of the beast that was Britain, with Lord General Cornwallis and a warlord if their ever was one, William Tavington. The monster who had slaughtered dozens, maybe even hundreds. She remembered when she had accompanied her father on his last trip to Charleston, to the Assembly, more than two years prior. It was the last time she had seen the Martins together, before Thomas died and Benjamin and Gabriel joined the militia. Before Tavington drove them to war. 

"How could I have ended up _here?_" she yelled into the blankets, her knuckles turning white. "How?"

Her breathing steadied and she unclenched her hands, gingerly feeling the bump on her forehead. She must have fallen off the ledge she was sleeping on. But her horse-? It must have run away in the night. She never was one for tying knots. How was she going to convince Cornwallis and Tavington that she had not, in fact, been running away but living up to the person she was painting herself to be?

"Indians?" she muttered to herself, pushing the sheets off her body. "No, they've been run out."She walked over to the thick window, biting at her thumb and she began to pace. "Escaped slaves? Continentals?" She stopped herself short and shook her head. Marion woud never pin Continentals as the ones who did - whatever Cornwallis thought had happened to her.

She would simply tell them she was out for an early morning ride, to enjoy South Carolina before leaving for England when-

* * *

"I lost control of my mare. She must have been spooked by something or other, the silly thing," Marion explained, adding a feminine giggle for effect. Tavington had to refrain from rolling his eyes at her as he stood, at attention, behind Cornwallis, who was seated at his desk. Marion sat in an ornate mahogany chair in front of him, trying to keep a convincing air about herself. 

But Tavington wasn't letting her get off that easy. "You were quite aways away from your plantation when we found you, Miss Foster," he said cooly, surveying her with an icy stare. Marion almost stumbled over her words, but composed herself quickly. Years of arguing with her step-mother had made her the queen of quick-thinking.

"I- I must have been turned around on the rode. I'm not really one for navigation." She smirked ever so slightly and tilted her head,letting a drip of sarcasm slip into her voice."Does that satisfy you, Colonel?" Cornwallis couldn't help but smile to himself, allowing his facade to soften. She reminded him of his daughter, so far away in England.

Tavington gave her a wry smile, clucking his tongue softly. "And what of the rope, Miss Foster?"

Despite all her experience, Marion faltered and a flush crept into her cheeks. "The rope?" she echoed, buying precious time to think. Cornwallis narrowed his eyes and looked from the stoic Tavington to the panicing Marion.

"Yes, Miss Foster, the rope. It was found not more than a yard or two from you. Could you possibly enlighten us as to why?" Tavington seemed self-satisfied, certainly catching the young woman in the web of lies she was quickly spinning. "Well, Miss Foster?"

Marion averted her eyes for a moment, "Rope, rope," she muttered, tapping her lip. Her act was wearing thin as her mind raced. "It must have been part of my horse's halter. I thought that old thing was looking a little tattered." Inside, she was cheering at herself for thinking up such a lie so quickly. Tavington seemed to visually deflate and his eyes darkened. He almost began sputtering in response.

"Miss Foster, lying does not help your position-," he warned, his tone growing darker. But Marion wasn't having it.

"My position?" she said, red tinging the tops of her cheeks as her eyes seemed to spark. "And I assure you, Colonel, I am not lying." For a moment, it seemed her facade as a gentle Southern belle would be thrown aside, but she calmed herself quickly looking away. Cornwallis eyed her, looking suspiscious. He wasn't totally convinced by her act, and Marion was forced to grasp at straws.

"I did not know how to tack a horse and all the servants were still asleep. I wished not to wake them, so I simply used the halter my mare was already wearing, sir," she murmured, eyes lowered in seeming respect. "I apologize for my outburst, Colonel," she added slowly, "It was not my place to speak to you so."

Tavington flared his nostrils, an eyebrow raised. _What sort of game was this girl playing?_ "No it was not, Miss Foster."

"Colonel," Cornwallis warned, his voice heavy with reprimand. "Now, Miss Foster, we've sent a dispatch soldier to your home, and we're expecting him back before nightfall-."

Marion raised her eyes quickly, mouth agape, "He won't find anyone," she said slowly. "My father and step-mother left for England this morning. They wouldn't miss that ship for the world."

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	5. Losing The Battle

Love and War

Chapter V - Losing The Battle

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Tavington was thrown off guard by her answer. _No family would leave their daughter in the Americas alone. _Cornwallis narrowed his eyes and sputtered out an answer. "I'm sure your parents would not leave you here, Miss Foster. I assure you, you'll be home by night-."

"No, I won't," Marion said, her voice soft but strong. Her gray eyes became steely as she surveyed Cornwallis, "My stepmother would _never_ miss that boat. Not for the King himself."

Cornwallis couldn't help but nod his head. He had met Elizabeth Whitely Foster more than once; the woman was a nuisance, to say the least. She was a social climber, a mountaineer in her own right. He didn't doubt a thing Marion was saying. "But surely your father wouldn't leave you?" he said steadily, returning her gaze.

That struck a nerve in Marion, and both men knew it. Her hands clenched on the wood armrests, her knuckles turning white. "My father is practically a vegetable, sir. He has no say in what direction his - or my life, for that matter - is going." Her voice ebbed to a whisper and she looked away quickly.

The general blinked a few times and cleared his throat, "Your parents-, your father and stepmother that is." Tavington didn't miss Marion wincing at the mention of Elizabeth. "They are aboard _The Cambridge_, yes?"

Marion nodded her head. _Where was he going with this?_

"_The Cambridge_ docks in Boston for a week before beginning the voyage to England. I can have you on a ship to Boston tomorrow morning, Miss Foster, and you'll be able to meet them before they leave for England."

Tavington raised an eyebrow at Marion's reaction. She bit at her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, turning her head to one side. This girl certainly was not who she made herself out to be. Cornwallis, however, did not notice her response as he had glanced down at the parchment on his desk. Marion recovered quickly, looking up with a new resolve behind her eyes.

"But, sir," she said, her words coming quick and firm, "I'm not meant to go to England."

Cornwallis looked up sharply, "I beg your pardon, Miss Foster?" Tavington looked at her shrewdly. _How was she going to dig herself out of this?_

"I'm to be married before the year's end, sir. Unless I wished to miss the wedding, there is no feasible way I could journey to England." Marion felt herself shiver as she spoke. She had vowed never to married, after seeing the imbeciles her family would force her onto.

Tavington was surprised to feel something inside him deflate and shrivel as she spoke. Then he remembered what an elaborate liar this girl certainly was. He was even more surprised to feel himself inflate again, and he visually puffed out his chest.

"You are to married and yet your only family in the Americas is leaving for England?" Cornwallis said, disbelief etched into his words.

Marion met his eyes, "They weren't sure how long this war was going to last, and with the rumors of the French," she trailed off, sighing heavily for effect. "It pained them to go, but it was something they had to do."

The general couldn't help but nod his head, jaw agape, "I see." Though difficult to follow, her story was in a stretch, believable.

"To whom are you to be married, if I may ask, Miss Foster?" the colonel said wryly, his eyes cold as stone.

Marion shifted her gaze to him, and for a moment it was a battle of wills. "Charles Abbot," she heard herself blurt. True, Charles was planning to purpose to her (as all of Charleston knew) but Marion despised the man and found herself repulsed by his presence. Why she said his name, she still does not know. "I'm to marry Charles Abbot, Colonel."

He only narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her. But the general drew her eyes away. "My congratulations, Miss Foster," he said, sounding as if he was losing interest in this light interrogation.

"Thank you, sir," she said, making to stand, "I'll be sure to remember your kindness, General," she made sure to 'forget' Tavington, "Now, I'd be much obliged for the use of one of your horses?" Marion finished, now standing.

Before Cornwallis could answer, Tavington broke in. "A horse? For what, Miss Foster?"

Marion blinked. She was almost home free. "For the journey to the Abbots' plantation, Colonel. Surely you do not expect me to walk, sir," she said with a slight laugh and a shallow smile.

"Nonsense, Miss Foster," Tavington shot back. He was not about to let her out of his sight; she was hiding something. Why else would she try so desperately to escape them? "It is highly improper to be living under the same roof as your betrothed!" He allowed himself a devilish smirk as he watched Marion's face seem to crumple.

"Quite right, Colonel," Cornwallis chirped, standing as well. "You must stay here, Miss Foster. I assure you, you will never have to see the common soldier, and the accommodations will be up to your expectations." Cornwallis gave her a genuine smile, thinking that he was doing the best thing he could for the young woman. "Tomorrow Colonel Tavington will escort you to your plantation and you may bring whatever you need here."

At this, Tavington nearly blushed and he began to sputter, "But, sir, the Dragoons and I-."

"Peace, Colonel," Cornwallis warned. "You _will _escort the young lady."

Tavington could only surrender to the general's will. "Yes, my lord," he sighed. Marion turned, obviously in a huff, and left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

She had lost the battle. But she refused to lose the war.

Cornwallis waited until her footsteps died away. "I don't fully trust her, Colonel," he muttered, glancing at Tavington. "Something about her, just- just doesn't sit well with me."

Tavington almost smirked. It was the most intelligent thing he had ever heard the general hear. "Nor with I."

* * *

Marion had resorted to pacing again. She _hated_ pacing. There was a furious flush in her cheeks as she bit at her rough nails. She was so close, _so close_. Cornwallis was eating out of her hand, but Tavington. "Damn, Tavington," she cursed shaking her head. 

She felt a shiver go down her spine as she spoke his name and she credited it to fear of the Butcher. But she pushed the sudden reaction to the back of her mind; she would need to tie up some loose ends if she was to pull this off. She would need to write to Charles, accept the proposal (it wouldn't be as if she would be around to follow through), and keep up appearances until she could escape.

Her mind was racing, trying to think of ways or means of escape. She didn't know how long she could subject herself to this torture before breaking.

Tomorrow, she thought suddenly, _At the house. I'll lose Tavington in the house. I can outride him with a good head start. I'll go to Pembroke. The Howards will take me in._

she thought suddenly, 

But a knock on her door drove a spike through her thoughts, splintering them like shards of glass. She took a breath, gathering her strength. "Yes?"

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	6. Winning the War?

Love and War

Chapter VI - Winning The War

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Marion did not take well to her new position, but it wasn't as if she could protest. She would have screamed, stomped, cursed, even, if she thought it would have benefited her cause. Unfortunately, only appearing the delicate flower, at least until she was back at home with only the colonel standing between herself and freedom, would save her now.

The knock at the door made her freeze and she slowly turned, her back to the windows letting in the red rays of sunset. She crossed the room, opening the door with a snap. "Yes, what do-?" but she stopped short, seeing Colonel Tavington standing stiffly in her doorway. "Colonel Tavington," she muttered, dropping into a quick curtsy. He nodded his head in greeting, but his eyes were still cold as ever. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Colonel?"

"Tomorrow I will be escorting you to your plantation," he stated simply, folding his hands behind his back. The brass buttons on the brocade of his red and green jacket shimmered in the dimming light. The colonel dare not take a step into the room, for propriety's sake.

Marion raised an eyebrow. She knew all this already. "Yes, and?" she couldn't help but retort. Her lips twitched, begging to pull into smirk, but she resisted.

Tavington didn't react and continued. "We leave an hour after dawn. I advise you to be ready, or you may find yourself riding halfway across South Carolina in your nightclothes," he chuckled coldly, smirking down at her. "Not that I object, but I suspected you would."

She narrowed her eyes, her lips parting slightly, almost as if she were baring her teeth. "Thank you for the warning, Colonel," she replied, eyeing him. He remained stoic and turned to leave, his spurs ringing like tiny silver bells. "Oh, Colonel?" she called after him, leaning out into the luxuriously furnished hall.

He allowed himself a small pat on the back. The girl was warming to him. All the better for his cause. "Yes, Miss Foster?" he said as he turned on his heel, poised as if he was addressing a superior officer.

"Speaking of nightclothes," Marion breathed, her voice almost husky as she took a step towards him. Her gray eyes softened to liquid as she looked up at him through smoky lashes, "I have none." The colonel raised an eyebrow. Perhaps his plan was working a bit _too_ well.

Tavington found himself at a loss for words as he stared down at Marion, now only a few feet from him. He didn't have to speak, as she continued, "Perhaps you can arrange for some to be brought to my quarters?"

The woman was now so close she could see how often he shaved. Marion raised her hands, and Tavington felt himself freeze up as she began to straighten his cravat expertly. "Well," she murmured, looking up at him. The cold steel behind his eyes made her shudder and Tavington didn't miss her lip begin to quiver. Marion couldn't believe she was doing this, to the Butcher most of all. "Can it be done, Colonel?"

He didn't have a chance to answer, as General O'Hara and his merry band of Cornwallis' other lapdogs rounded the corner. "Colonel!" O'Hara rumbled, his body tensing as he drew himself up to his full height. His cheeks became tinged with red as he narrowed his calculating eyes.

Both Marion and Tavington pulled away, Marion with the shadow of a smirk and Tavington with a frown and gritted teeth. "Miss Foster, if you would go to your quarters," O'Hara said, his tone softening as he eyed her. "Lord Cornwallis is having some things of a feminine nature sent to your chamber, to tide you over until Colonel Tavington," at this he glared at the colonel, eyes hard, "can bring you to your home to collect your things."

"However," O'Hara continued, folding his hands behind his back. He began circling around Tavington like a hawk circling prey. He did not, however, count on the predator becoming the prey. "I wonder if the colonel is the best escort for yourself."

Tavington glared at O'Hara, the only evidence that he was smoldering with fury. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Foster," he clipped, nodding towards Marion. "General," he said, his voice turning to gravel as he passed.

Marion watched him go, giving O'Hara a small, modest smile. She didn't miss the retreating Tavington clenching and unclenching his hands before he disappeared.

* * *

The next morning was cold, colder than usual for that time of year, in that portion of the colonies. Marion awoke to the sound of whinnying horses in the beaten dirt yard of the fort below her window. She stretched, eyes bleary, and yawned wildly. The cotton nightgown plucked at her skin, making her itch. It seemed this particular garment had been sitting in a chest in the attic of Fort Carolina for months without a snippet of the outside world.

Glancing sideways, Marion noticed it was barely sunrise. Something tugged at the back of her mind, and remembered her little "appointment" with Tavington. Inside, she groaned to herself. She would only have to keep up the little longer, until she was free of the Redcoats and the ice-eyed colonel.

* * *

"Good to see you're on time, Miss Foster," Tavington said with a smirk. He was dressed in full Dragoon uniform, save the bearskin helmet. The officer hadn't forgotten the previous night, the way she had touched him. He just preferred not to let her know that. "We've managed to secure one of the more _docile_ horses for your use today. And I think you'll be happy to find she's been completely tacked up as well."

Marion said nothing, but gave him the strongest glare she could muster. The horse he spoke of was a mare, not as young as she wished, but the animal would do. A dark chestnut American Saddlebred, a bay, with a black mane and tail. Marion approached the creature slowly, not wanting to startle the mare. She patted her gently, reveling in the soft velvet touch of the horse's muzzle. Neighing softly, the horse nudged Marion softly, and Marion couldn't help but smile widely, despite the circumstances.

Behind her, Tavington watched with interest. This was a completely different woman; Marion was smiling, without any agenda or trick behind it. In truth, he had seen to it personally that she was given one of the more temperamental horses. This particular animal liked next to no one, save himself. He had always seen the beast as the best judge of character he had ever known; apparently the mare was losing her touch.

She felt his eyes and her smile faded, "Good girl," she murmured, giving the horse one last pat before swinging herself into the saddle, despite her voluminous skirts, and settled into the all-too-familiar sidesaddle.

Tavington raised an eyebrow at her. _Couldn't tack a horse, my foot, _he thought, still watching her. "Shall we get a move on, Miss Foster?" he called over his thoughts.

"What's her name?" Marion said in reply, not looking up from the leather reins.

She could almost taste Tavington's change in manner. "I beg your pardon?" he sputtered, turning his horse so that he was facing her.

Marion smirked to herself. Men were so predictable. Even murderous ones. "The horse," she said, turning her head so she could see the incredulous look on his face. "What's her name?" she repeated, this time as if he was a peasant or a simpleton.

"Oh," was all he said, looking down for a moment. His tensed body relaxed and he felt his face fall into a small smile. Marion thought he reminded her of a vampire more than anything else. "Isolde," he said after a moment.

Marion cocked her head, brow furrowed. She opened her mouth to respond, but shut it quickly as Tavington spurred his horse into a canter. Not one to be outdone, he followed him, catching up with him as they rode through the wooden gates of Fort Carolina, towards what could mean winning the war against the colonel, and winning her freedom.

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	7. Born to Run

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**Love and War**

**Chapter VII - Born to Run**

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**Yeah, totally just bought The Patriot on DVD. Squee, just wonderful. Oh, Tavvy, how have I survived without thee. And basically every other male character in the movie, come to think of it ('cept for the ones that are old or look like they have scurvy. eww)**

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The pair rode in silence, the Carolina countryside rolling by them in the cold light of the morning. Despite her uncomfortable position (due both to the company and the sidesaddle), Marion found that she was enjoying herself. It was the riding; it made her feel free and unfettered of any bounds that kept her. Tavington was an observative man, he didn't miss the small smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He spurred his horse onward, and Marion followed, her every touched heeded by the mare. The woman was a good rider, an expert, Tavington hated to admit. Better even than some of the lower Dragoons. 

Sideways glances became the language of the two, and they both did their share of ogling. Marion couldn't understand how a man with such a reputation could seem so very _decent_. Tavington couldn't understand just what was making her fear him, making her run. At the back of his mind, he couldn't help but find her pretty. 

She had hair that, while it wasn't extraordinary, had hair that looked a dark blonde in the sun and golden brown by candlelight. And her face was not that of a classic painted beauty, indeed he doubted she ever wore less than half the makeup most women of the time did, but she had full lips and a pleasantly round face, with the slightest sprinkling of freckles across her nose. But her eyes were what drew him in. Her gray eyes could be cold as stone, or sparkle like foggy diamonds. They mirrored her emotions, every little detail of what she was feeling. Hell, if all women were as easily readas that, many, many a battle would not have been fought. 

The countryside turned from the plains stretching from Fort Carolina to the beaten road in the woods where Marion had been found. Tavington felt the words rising in his throat, but he pushed them back. A real interrogation would be in order, but now was not the time. 

Woods became broken and scattered, giving way to a wide sweep of green lawns and acres of plantation. Charles Town could be seen on the horizon, and past it the ocean. Tavington slowed his horse for a minute, taking in the view. Ever since he stepped foot off the ship, he was in love with every breath of the Americas; the country was just so pure, untouched, free of anything that could spoil it. A man could be a man here. 

Marion spurred her horse onward, leaving Tavington sputtering in the dust, to some extent. Her home was not far; they were past the cotton fields already and the stark white of the plantation home could be seen in the late morning sun. Tavington started, seeing her far ahead of him, and he kicked his horse, the creature galloping after her. The house rose before them like a wall of limestone on the edge of the sea. White pillars marched the length of the front veranda and the gravel drive was lined by carefully pruned trees. 

It had been little more than a day since the owners of the plantation had been gone, but the place looked like it had been deserted for years. There were no slaves bustling about the fields, no servants vigorously scrubbing the white porch to make it gleam. Marion felt the breath catch in her throat as she realized how truly alone she was, and she looked down painfully, her horse slowing to an easy, quick walk. 

Tavington pulled up alongside her, matching her pace, and couldn't help looking at her curiously. He had sensed some vibrant, calculating energy oozing from her every pore, but the second they had come close to the house, she became docile and quiet as a dove. "Your home, I presume?" he mused, more to break the stony silence than to start a conversation. 

She pursed her lips and looked up, "You presume correctly, Colonel." Her eyes flashed and she glanced towards the balcony she had escaped from only two nights prior, having no idea she would be returning. She could see her ladder of linen, flapping in the breeze, and she stifled a gasp. The girl would need to think up a good story for that one too; no doubt the colonel was planning on interrogating her on all and everything that he saw. 

The pair halted in front of the steps, and Tavington dismounted fluidly. He walked briskly around Marion's horse, meaning to help her down, but instead found her dismounting without him, her eyes hard and determined. She met his gaze, and forced her eyes to soften. _Nothing so grand as a man off guard_, she thought. 

"Follow me, Colonel," she said, walking up the steps. "I expect my things are all packed upstairs and-," but she stopped herself, whirling around. "Exactly how much can I bring?" Her voice was shrill, like a startled bird. 

Tavington smirked, "Well, how much do you think _you _can carry comfortably?" he replied, putting the emphasis on you. Marion narrowed her eyes, turning in a huff. 

"I expect you can drive a wagon, _sir_," she continued, wrenching open the doors of the plantation. The slaves had left it unlocked in hope of her return. "For we shall sorely need it." 

- 

The interior was as grand as the outside of the house, thought just as deserted. The foyer was lined by portraits in gilded frames and the familycrest hung above the arched doorway that lead into the next room, filled with the golden light of the sun. Double oak staircases wound upwards, complete with shining banisters, coming together over the crest. Tavington found himself looking upwards and saw an unlit chandelier (undoubtedly crystal) and he snorted. "Someone must be coming to pack up the furnishes," he mused, clasping his hands behind his back and clicking his heels together. 

"Oh, yes," Marion replied halfheartedly, her eyes resting on a particularly large portrait of a pale but beautiful woman. 

Tavington followed her gaze and knew immediately this was her late mother. Marion had her eyes and nose, but luckily had not inheirited the woman's sickly pallor. 

"I suppose within the week. I expect the cargo ships leaving after they may be accosted by the French." Inside, she prayed they would. She would rather see her mother's fine things paying for muskets and support for the Continentals then comforting Elizabeth. 

She broke her stare at the portrait and walked calmly towards the stairs, which had begun to collect the thinnest sheen of dust. "This way, Colonel," she said, climbing the stairs. 

Tavington hesitated. Propriety dictated he not follow her, unchaperoned or no, into her bedchamber. Marion paused at the top of the stairs and looked down on him; she saw his thoughts etched in his face and stifled a laugh. She did, however, smile for a moment. "Surely you do not expect me to carry it all myself?" she called, leaning onto the banister. Truly, however, she couldn't have him by the door; her plan wouldn't work if he was. 

Again, he hesitated, but followed her, grumbling somethign inaudible. Marion thought she caught "manipulative" and "minx" and few times. She muffled her laughter with her itchy cotton sleeve. Once he had caught up, she turned to the right, heading down a green corridor lined with ornate chairs and a few sculptures. Behind her, the click of Tavington's boots melted away as they walked onto the plush carpet laid on the wood flooring. She found she did not like not knowing he was there, but dismissed it quickly. 

Marion turned sharply, opening a set of oak double doors wide. Sunlight streamed through the windows, which looked over her balcony and the woods beyond. Tavington halted in the doorway, planning on going no further, his gentleman's sense screaming at him for coming this far. 

"Let me change into some _decent_ clothes," she muttered, looking around for any sign of what had been packed and taken (Elizabeth always had liked Marion's dresses, though they fit her poorly). "Then we'll take the trunks," she pointed to a pile of leather trunks and a few wooden chests piled by the foot of her four-poster bed. 

Tavington didn't answer, only nodding, having never seen the inside of a young woman's room before. He had, of course, seen inside his mother's room, but that wasn't quite the same. "Yes, of course," he replied, his voice sounding a bit strangled. 

Marion glanced curiously at him over her shoulder before walking into an immense closet. He heard the click of a lock as she closed the door and found himself blushing. _Do I really seem like _that _kind of man to her? _

Marion, however, had locked the door fora much different reason. 

- 

Fast as she could, Marion ripped the horridly itchy dress off herself along with her corset. Finally, she could breath properly. The closet bathed her in semi-darkness, the only light coming from a small window set high in the wall and made with thick, pittled glass. But the window didn't concern her much. She moved, instead, towards the uncovered brick wall, moving aside the tall beaureau as quietly as she could, revealing a gap between the brick and the inside wall. Marion couldn't help but smirk as she removed a cold pair of breeches and cotton shirt she had stolen from one of the manservants, donning them quickly. 

She glanced back, expecting to see Tavington breathing down her neck. The door was still locked, and she thought she heard him humming on the other side. She smiled to herself before slipping into the passage behind the gap. Her footsteps were muffled by the walls as she descended the secret set of stairs to the first floor.

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**Ooh, she's on the run! Give me reviews and you might find out what happens next a bit quicker! lol luv ya guys!**


	8. Thundering Steps

Chapter VIII - Thundering Steps

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Okay, I'm just using this A/N as a venue to advertise for one of my best friends, Phil, who has entered a contest at Harry Potter dot com. I would REALLY REALLY appreciate it if all of you would vote for him -- if he wins, there's no telling how many reviews and sequels you'll get! -- as this would make him very happy. The link is as follows www. Harry Potter .com /goblet (just remove the spaces). His entrance names are PhillipS653 and MichaelS327. You can vote for both once a day, and again, please vote!

Alright, done blabbering, on with the story.

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Tavington found himself humming to drown out whatever sound came from the closet. He didn't know exactly what he was humming, just that he _was_ humming, something he was sure he had never done before. At one point, he thought he heard a loud thunk of something or other, but dismissed it as the simple endeavors of Marion trying to get into a corset and hoopskirt contraption in such close quarters. He began rocking back and forth in impatience, his spurs ringing like spiked bells, and another minute passed. But his soldier's sense began buzzing; something was not right.

He moved forward, rapping lightly on the closet door with his knuckles, "Miss Foster?" he said, trying his best to sound pleasant. "Miss Fost-?" A door slammed from somewhere downstairs and Tavington felt himself pale. _She was running._ _Cornwallis is going to love this._

"Bloody minx!" he roared, whirling on himself, his boots pounding a haggard tattoo against the wood floor. The colonel galloped down the long hall, leaping down the stairs two at a time, and out the front door. His heart beat in his ears the entire time, a small voice in his head taunting him. _If you let her get away, Cornwallis will never let you command again_, it said.

Outside, he was relieved to see not only his horse, but hers as well pawing the ground lazily. Surely she would have taken Isolde? _No, she knows she can't outrun me on horseback._ "Miss Foster!" he yelled, more of a scream, to see if he could shake her out of hiding. No answer. "I swear on my eyes," he grumbled, mounting his horse quickly and slapping the creature into a canter with a swish of the reins.

--

While Tavington had been humming away, Marion had descended the hidden stairs as quietly as she could, coming out into the eaves beneath one of the foyer staircases. She tiptoed quietly out of the shadow of the great staircase, finding herself directly beneath the prize chandelier. Her face fell as she looked upwards. _If only they could see me now._

But she couldn't let anything stop her. Freedom was only a few feet away, the door was within her grasp. Marion opened the door carefully, knowing full well how squeaky it could be, and stepped out onto the porch. Without thinking, she shut the door with a snap and winced as the slam hit her ears. "Damn," she cursed, clenching her teeth. The girl only allowed a split-second to collect herself before setting off at a run, not caring how much noise she was making as she clambered onto the lawn.

She thought she heard a roar of frustration, Tavington no doubt, and she ran faster, almost flying across the grass. Rounding the house, she could see the cotton fields. If she could into the back fields she could lose him in the neighboring forest and make her way north. Her feet carried her quickly and the smooth lawn turned to the paths between the rows of cotton, beaten flat by generations of slaves.

Marion heard hoof beats, and, not daring to look back, dove beneath one of the plants, hiding in the leaves. True, she was visible upon close inspection but from afar she was as safe as she could hope for. Tavington was closing fast; she could hear the horse move from grass to the gravel road that split the field in two. Luckily, she was a few rows away from him, and she was sure he wouldn't be able to see her. Almost sure, that is.

"Miss Foster!" Tavington called, holding his horse steady. His jaw was set sternly as his cold eyes took a quick sweep of the surrounding fields. He knew she was not far, not on foot at least. And if she had any ounce of sense, she would be hiding in the fields, making her way to the forest or the stables if she was daring. "Miss Foster!" Again there was no answer, not even a rustle in the cotton. The colonel smirked, "Hiding, are we?" He clucked his tongue, "Not a wise move, madam."

Marion had to bite her tongue to keep from replying. That colonel was so full of himself she wanted to scream. She watched him through the cotton, waiting for him to turn his head. For a moment, she couldn't help but think him handsome. It wasn't the first - or last - time she would think so.

Crouched as low as she could, Marion moved back into the path, backing away towards the stables. If she could get to a horse and mount in the woods, she may have a chance. Those British ponies never were good in heavy brush anyways.

Her eyes were still fixed on Tavington, whose attention was now fully on the field on his left (for she was on his right), and she moved quietly but quickly towards the stables. Again, her lack of attention would be her downfall. A twig snapped loudly beneath her foot and she dropped to the ground instinctively. _What a state my dress is in now,_ she thought bitterly, cursing at herself.

Tavington turned his head so quickly he thought he heard his neck crack and he scanned the fields again. Nothing. But a cloud of dust rising slowly, halfway between himself and the stables, looked worth investigated. The dust was, of course, thrown up by the speed at which Marion had thrown herself to the ground. He snapped the reins and the horse set off down the gravel road that both split and lined the perimeter of fields. Marion felt her heart rise into her throat; it was now or never.

She ran, she ran faster than she ever thought she could. There was a moment of silence behind her, then the thunder of hooves erupted. "Foster!" Tavington roared, closing in on her fast. He was nearly there, but she disappeared into the stables. Slowing his horse to a walk, he followed. There was only one way in and out of the barn; there would be no escape for Marion this time. "Miss Foster?" he crooned, this time his voice was no longer a roar, but a purr, like a panther stalking its prey with seduction rather than claws.

It appeared the stables had been cleared out and, unfortunately for our heroine, the horses had been as well. The plantation was deserted in every sense of the word and the war was certainly to blame.

From behind a stall door, Marion had sank to the floor, trying to slow her breathing. Every breath she drew sounded like deafening thunder. She was pink in the face from running, her hair falling in sweaty strands over her face and around her neck. . Tavington was getting close, she could hear the steps of the horse getting nearer with every second. Fumbling through the straw as quietly as she could, her hands closed around something hard and cold; an old horseshoe.

It was covered in rust, but heavy, and would have to do. "Come out, come out," she heard Tavington chuckle. The spurs on his boots rang as he dismounted. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he swaggered towards the horse stalls lining the far wall. Eyeing the stalls, he searched for something, anything, that could tell him which one she was hiding in. As if guided by some otherworldly force, his eyes fell on the dirt floor and a set of small footprints that ended at the stall directly in front of him.

Meanwhile, Marion had straightened so that she was back on her feet, horseshoe in hand. The door shuddered as Tavington gripped the handle, yanking hard on it. It didn't budge and Marion felt herself smirked. "Wench!" Tavington cursed, pulling again, and the door shook harder, holding strong.

But all suddenly fell silent and again Marion thought her breathing loud. It was quiet for a long while and she pressed her face against the small crack in the door where it hinged. She found herself face to face with the barrel of a small pistol and yelped, pulling away in time to see the hinge explode. Now hanging on one hinge, Tavington kicked out with his booted foot, opening the door for good.

Remembering the horseshoe, Marion swung it at him with all her might. But Tavington was not colonel of the Green Dragoons for nothing. He caught her wrist deftly, twisting it until she dropped her iron weapon. Marion's mouth hung open in pain, her wrist feeling as if it was being broken a thousand times. "Colonel-!" she yelled, raising her other hand to swat him away.

Again, Tavington caught her wrist, and now she was completely subdued, unable to move away from him. "You'll find that forgiveness is not in my nature," he growled, towering over her. Marion looked up at him, fear flashing in her eyes. "Do not do this again, Miss Foster."

"If you're going to order me about like cattle, _sir_," Marion spat in return, forgetting her fear, "You may as well call me by my first name." She glowered and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes.

His grip softened and he let her go, "Very well."

She pushed past him, finding she couldn't keep such close quarters with him for long. "Good," she shot back, sending him a look a pure venom. Tavington sighed to himself, following her back to the house (he on horse, she on foot). She was going to cause him many a headache, this one.

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End file.
